Lonesome heart,
when the past is past, and the past lies dead,
let it lie.

Now is.
Then was.  Tomorrow shall be.
But now is.

Too soon, what is becomes what was.
And what will be becomes what is.
But what was remains what was.

Before now lives, it is dreamt.
And after now expires, it is remembered.
Neither is substance.

But the now is the real.
Neither aspiration nor memory,
it is the vivid flame of certain present being.

The now is the turning point.
The cusp, the peak, the bleeding edge of now.
Dreams realized, memories recalled, the present.

Dream?
Certainly.
It gives now purpose.

Aspire?
Most definitely.
It gives now direction.

Remember?
But of course.
It shows now progress.

Reminisce?
Surely.
It shows now passion.

But you must be that now.
Always here, ever-present now.
Fiery, passionate, vivid now.

For the colors of now
outstrip the unformed hues of dreams
and the faded pale shades of the past.

The possibility of now,
more real than dream-shadows,
more potent than prospects left unrealized.

The only real time.
The only possibility.
The now.